


These Fragile Bodies of Touch and Taste

by visiblemarket



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Conversations, M/M, Porn With Plot, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He gets barely a lift of eyebrows in return, which means he's going to have to work a hell of a lot harder to get a rise out of Coulson right now. And that is what he wants. To get a rise out of him. He catches himself smirking, and Coulson's giving him a look, like <i>Really, Barton? </i>, like he's caught his whole train of thought, half-hearted innuendo and all.</p><p>And Clint laughs and nods his head, because yes, <i>really</i>, but he’s not just pulling pigtails here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Fragile Bodies of Touch and Taste

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt off of [avengerkink](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=8412037#t8412037), namely: _[Clint/Coulson, Wall Sex - weak knees afterwards: Hot wall sex with Clint holding Phil up (because, come on have seen those arms)and fucking him so thoroughly that Phil has weak knees afterwards and needs to be carried to bed](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/6021.html?thread=8412037#t8412037)_ , now full of feels and randomness because THAT'S WHO I AM, I suppose.
> 
> Title comes from the song "Lovers in a Dangerous Time", which is, I realize, entirely too on the nose, but I'm like that. This is also kind of based on that line in _The Avengers_ where Coulson tells Thor that his showing up "Kind of changed everything around here", and kind of indicates it was in a positive way? This is kind of where my mind went with that. So I'm just spreading my suffering around, enjoy.

There aren't many things Clint Barton can say with absolute certainty. His childhood was crazy as fuck. His best friend is a beautiful assassin whom he's tried to kill twice. His job history spans the full legal and moral spectrum. The only stabilizing influence in his life is a shadowy paramilitary organization that protects the world from threats internal, external, and other, and boy does the “other” get interesting. All of this has left him with a view of the world that is decidedly...relative. Variable. Flexible, in so many fun ways. 

But there a few things he knows for sure, and one of them is really pretty central in his mind right now, which is: he really fucking _hates_ New Mexico.

Okay, maybe not all of New Mexico. But this perpetually dusty (except when it is _pouring-ass rain_ , apparently, and also thundering, because that's just what you want when you're hanging in the air in a metal rig, suspended from a metal crane), middle of nowhere corner of New Mexico, he is really getting sick of. 

So maybe he could be trying to make the best of it. Getting the lay of the land. Appreciating the alleged breathtaking beauty of the Land of Enchantment (oh, how _hilarious_ he'd thought that was) and its open spaces and wide blue skies. 

So maybe he's totally not. Because, well, a) it's oh-three-hundred, so no blue skies, and b) he's got somewhere to be. 

He resists the urge to kick the door open when he gets there, but he does lock it behind him. Coulson doesn't even lift his head, although he has to have heard.

"Barton."

"Sir."

Coulson looks up at that. Nods at the seat in front of his desk, and Clint tries not to feel like a kid called in front of the principal. He never got a chance to be that kid and he doesn't quite know how to act when it happens.

"Anything?"

He shrugs.

"Bar stuff, sir. Drank a shit ton of who knows what, got into a fight--"

"Blake?"

"Selvig. He's a scrappy Scandinavian bastard, sir. But nothing weird." Except for the freaky Swedish songs they'd been singing when Clint left, but he's terrified Coulson'll send him back to further investigate the Secret Neo-Viking Conspiracy or whatever he thinks is going on in Jane Foster's trailer. "I'm telling you, nothing out of the ordinary."

He takes a chance and leans back in his chair, and it is his chair, he doubts any one else gets the dubious privilege of being called in here after hours to have this sort of discussion. Far enough to prop his heels on the edge of Coulson's desk, and it is Coulson's desk, as much as the one back at New York HQ is, as much as every desk Coulson uses is, an extension of him and as untouchable as Coulson likes to appear. Dirt, dried mud, really, flakes off and onto neat piles of paper which he is careful not to disturb but has nevertheless soiled. 

He gets barely a lift of eyebrows in return, which means he's going to have to work a hell of a lot harder to get a rise out of Coulson right now. And that is what he wants. To get a rise out of him. He catches himself smirking, and Coulson's giving him a look, like _Really, Barton?_ , like he's caught his whole train of thought, half-hearted innuendo and all.

And Clint laughs and nods his head, because yes, _really_ , but he’s not just pulling pigtails here. 

"Got anything _better_ to do?" he says, and he's serious, which means he probably shouldn't be saying it with a grin, but what the hell, sex makes him happy. The _possibility_ of sex makes him happy, and Coulson knows him well enough to know that. 

"Than you, you mean?" 

He didn't, but he likes that Coulson's getting into the spirit of things, and he lets his boots drop back to the ground. Coulson puts his pen down, carefully, and that's a pretty major show of willing. Clint takes it as one, anyway, and gets up, walks around the desk, grabs the lapels of Coulson's jacket, and spins him around. The office chair squeaks at the strain and they both wince, but Coulson looks up at him, face calm, eyes anything but, and Clint stares back down, trying not to make it a challenge, but keeping a tight grip on his jacket just the same. 

"Yeah?" he finally asks, because he can't deal otherwise, and Phil nods. Clint drags him up. 

They're chest to chest and it's awkward, because they're breathing the same air and their foreheads bump and there's a natural pull but they avoid it, they're fucking masters at avoiding it at this point. There's still a moment where Clint wonders, when his grip on Phil's jacket has slipped and his hands are underneath it instead, pressed against his chest, sliding down to frame his hips, and Phil gives him that _smile_ , like he can't quite figure him out. 

Clint pushes through it, the unease, the running-on-quicksand feeling (seriously, _what_ ) he gets when Phil looks at him like that, to go for his belt, and Phil seems to snap out of whatever feeling _he's_ having and focuses.

"Where?" he says.

"Desk?" Clint offers, just to be a dick, and Phil frowns. 

"No," with a finality that brooks no argument, and yeah, it's pretty hot.

"Wall," Clint responds with equal certainty, and Phil nods. Clint grabs his jacket again, this time to yank it off with as little finesse as possible. He tosses it behind him, pretending not to care where it goes but making sure it at least lands on the recently vacated chair. He doesn't check to make sure it has. 

He grabs Phil's wrists instead, hard enough to bruise, backs him up with maybe four brisk steps, and pins him to the wall. Phil seems surprised at that. He wonders if he should apologize, but when he lets go and takes a step back Phil snakes a hand out, loops two fingers under his belt, and pulls him back. 

Clint takes a second to be pleased, before ducking in, loosening Phil's tie just enough and unbuttoning the first couple buttons of his shirt. 

"You leaving those on?" Phil says, with only a waver of petulance undercutting his characteristic calm as Clint's mouth sucks and nips and marks the skin he knows'll be covered back up when they're done.

"Just for you, boss," he breathes, lifting his head in order to do it right into Phil's ear, and feels Phil’s arms wrap tightly around his waist. "Easier to tidy yourself up and get back to work after, right?"

Phil's body does something odd against him, coils tight as if offended, but Clint knows what he's like and he's doing him a favor so he just chuckles and presses his sloppy wet lips right on top of a particularly brutal looking bite he's left at the base of Phil's throat. Even nuzzles against him for a moment, just to see the look on his face.

He bets it's awesome, but doesn't bother to check as he lets his hands slide down the front of Phil’s shirt and to his belt, which is a joke: smooth black, wide leather, holding up one of those gorgeous sets of slacks of his and that's the thing: Clint may sometimes be at a loss as to how he feels about Phil, but he knows that his appreciation for Phil's clothes goes way beyond healthy. Because they are good clothes in the way even someone like him, whose closest experience with stuff like that was third generation Sunday best, can recognize when they're against his palm, when they're separating him from the hot and solid mass of potential energy that is Phil Coulson when he's turned on.

What that means in practice, though, is that he's loathe to ruin them, even though he knows the job itself has much worse in store than anything Clint could ever do. You're just not careless toward clothes like that. So when he's done with the belt, instead of reaching in and stroking at Phil, who's hard but probably not leaking yet, he sinks to his knees. Phil makes some choked sound and Clint looks up.

"What?" 

"Nothing," he says, quickly, but reaches down anyway, presses his palm to Clint's cheek, and Clint's at a loss, before Phil seems to realize he's pushed too far and removes his hand. Clint ducks his head to hide the immediate blush he feels spreading across his face and, dammit, the back of his neck, too, so much for stealth.

"Shoes?" he peers up through his eyelashes to catch Phil's response, which is brief nod as the man tries to get a hold of himself, leaning against the wall with his head back and his eyes closed. Clint leaves him to that, starts untying those perfect fucking bows and loosening the laces.

"Left," he says, and Phil lifts his left foot, lets Clint ease off the shiny black shoe and toss it in the vague direction of his desk. They repeat the process with the right, and when Clint looks back up at him, about to finally get his pants off, and Phil is smiling that smooth, contemplative smile at him.

“I'm just admiring your aim," he says, his eyes crinkling like it's a joke, but on him and not on Clint. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Damn straight," Clint says, but he honestly doesn't give a fuck at the moment, and smiles back as he slips his fingers between the cotton briefs Phil wears and his skin, and pulls them down those wonderfully muscular thighs, bringing the slacks along for the ride.

He doesn't let them pool on the ground; that would defeat the point of the whole exercise. He makes Phil step out of them, folds them up, takes a moment to peel Phil's socks off too, and then stands to deposit his neat pile of discarded clothing back by the desk. And yeah, at this point, he may be fucking with Phil a little, but from the rigid, red cock peeking out from the tails of Phil's business shirt, he may not exactly be minding so much. 

Clint means to take his time walking back to him, really saunter into it. But then he catches Phil's eye, the way he's fiddling with the cuffs of his shirt, the way the very tips of his ears are rosy pink, and Clint thinks, _fuck it_ , takes a couple of quick strides, slides the rest of the way on his knees, and before he knows it, he's got Phil's dick in his mouth and Phil's hands in his hair and Phil's breathless laughter in his ears and it's all about as perfect as things can get in New Mexico.

And he sucks, swirls his tongue, bobs his head, gets used to the weird way the shirttails flap around his head when he takes all of Phil in, but as he feels the muscles in Phil's thighs tense and hears his breathing quicken and tastes the first traces of precome curling over his tongue, Clint decides he doesn't want him to come just yet and pulls back. 

Phil's only reaction to that is a quick, stuttery gasp, and honestly, it kind of pisses Clint off. He ducks his head again and keeps his lips closed, letting just the tip press in, and brings his hand up to stroke at the rest with quick efficient tugs as his tongue swirls over the slit. 

Phil starts making those rough, panting noises that mean he's close, and at the first "Barton--" Clint pulls off and lets go completely, rocking back on his heels. It's probably a lucky thing that Phil doesn't come all over him, and he probably would have had to work hard to convince himself he minded if Phil had, but he doesn't have to. Phil just sags back against the wall with a low groan, which is more like it, but when he speaks his tone is almost normal.

"Really?" is all he says, and Clint feels marginally ashamed of himself; there's reasons Phil's not very vocal, and they're ones they have in common, but where Clint pushed boundaries and paid the price, Phil was smart enough to work around them and survive physically unscathed. But there are mental holdovers and one of them is, he's quiet. In deference to that, Clint drops his forehead against Phil's hip and murmurs something that might, maybe, possibly, be an apology. 

He feels gentle fingers carding through his hair. "What are you going to do about it?"

"I want to fuck you into the wall," which isn't an answer but sort of is, and has to make a conscious effort to keep breathing as he waits for Phil to consider this. 

It doesn't take long. Phil just kind of pats his head, either in fondness or condescension or both, and says, "And what's stopping you? Propriety?"

"Fuck. You."

"I understood the offer the first time, Barton."

"Smartass," he says, and doesn't need to glance up to know Phil's giving him a look that speaks epically of pots, kettles, and relative blackness. He's too busy fishing the lube and condoms out of his jeans anyway. He hands the condom up to Phil, who takes it without a word.

And then he can get to the good stuff, slicking up his fingers and mouthing wetly at the skin around Phil's cock, sliding his lips over Phil's balls as he slips one finger inside of him, and then another. Phil's hands are on his shoulders the whole time, half-way between holding onto him for balance and damn near massaging him, and that's it, he _is_. His crazy-calm, beautiful handler he's been trying to use for sex to distract himself from this boring _shithole_ of a mission is actually rubbing his shoulders like some...some...some he doesn't know what, okay, but it feels _inappropriate_ and hilarious and he just laughs. 

He expects Phil to freeze or wonder or _something_ but he just seems to chuckle, Clint feels him vibrate slightly, and it's too much. He pulls back. Stands up. Stares, and Phil's flushed and gasping a little and perfect but he's always perfect and Clint grabs his tie and yanks it apart as quick as he can and tosses it to the ground. Phil watches him but doesn't say anything, reaches for his hips but stops when Clint shakes his head.

"Put it on for me?" Clint says, going for abrupt as he starts in on the rest of the buttons of Phil's shirt, but it comes out more plaintive and he's glad to know that with Phil he doesn't have to clarify or even meet his eyes. 

He hears the sound of foil ripping and feels his belt being unbuckled at roughly the same time, and Phil would be crazy dexterous enough to be able to manage both one handed. He feels one of those hands ease open his fly and insinuate itself into his boxers, and just barely linger there, really, more as a reminder that it can than anything, before slipping out and nudging his jeans down his hips. 

Phil's hand on his cock keeps it from springing out. It also keeps Clint from thinking for what must be a good solid minute while Phil pumps him to fuller hardness and rolls the condom on and by then Clint's full on clinging to him by the ends of his shirt. But at least he can breathe again, and take in his surroundings, and gauge his progress.

He's done with the buttons and torn between feeling up the wonderfully bare chest in front of him (which is strange, usually Phil's got an undershirt) and getting him completely out of the shirt, which is still clinging to his arms, when Phil's voice softly suggests that he give him a second. 

And he does, even if he doesn't want to. 

But that's right, Phil's shirt cuffs have buttons, and he's unfastening them, slipping the shirt off of his shoulders and onto the floor, and turning around, which--

"No." Clint forces his hand against Phil's chest hard enough that the wall shakes, but Phil just barely raises his eyebrows, and really, Clint could kill him. The man is naked, hard, dripping onto the floor, and Clint's still got all of his clothes on, they've been slightly rearranged at most, and he's been calling all the shots, and he's the one about to fuck his immediate superior as hard as he can against his office wall. And yet it’s Clint who’s feeling like he's been rubbed raw and stripped bare. "No," he says, more softly, and lets his hand slide down Phil's chest and over his hip and around his thigh. He brings his other hand over to mirror it, around Phil's other thigh, feels him tense, and looks up.

" _Barton_." It's a question and a bit of commentary and a warning, but this isn't the field and Clint doesn't have to take it under advisement.

"I can handle it, sir," he says, aiming for cocky, grins, and leans in for good measure. "Can you?"

Phil lets out a huff of frustration, but Clint's close enough that he can feel the wet twitch against his stomach that marks it as a not-quite professional type, and that's enough for him. He spreads Phil's legs apart, shoves his body in between them, and pushes him to the wall and up. 

And yeah, Phil's hardly insubstantial: he's mostly muscle under those nice suits and that's just how Clint likes him, not that he really gets a say in the matter. But of all the thing Clint has ever had to use his arms for, holding Phil up against the wall in order to fuck him is really damn low on the hardship scale. 

Or will be, once he actually gets inside him. Apparently his aim is not quite up to par at the moment, and doesn't that just fucking figure. 

"Bart--"

"I'm working on it," he snaps, and he is. Phil's arms are around his neck, which is fine, kinda nice, actually, and he'd holding both of Phil's thighs up and perpendicular to his waist, which he can handle, except for the fact the he needs a free hand for like a second, just, _wow_ , is his brain slow when he's got an entirely naked Phil Coulson wrapped around him and breathing heavy and rutting against his stomach.

"Babe," he grits out, and Phil doesn't stop with the insistent little thrusts but he does wrap one of his legs around Clint’s waist and not only does that leave Clint with a free hand, it also pulls him further in, and from there it's easy, really, getting the head in first and then the rest when Phil arches off the wall.

When he's fully seated he looks up, and stops. Phil's face is many things right now but calm it's not, and there's little beads of sweat dotting his forehead, and Phil _never_ sweats, not even when they do this, not even when he's wearing dark suits in the full New Mexico heat. Phil blinks, eyes focusing, and smiles at him. 

This is just Clint's and it will only ever be Clint's and the thought should pacify him, should calm him, because it's all he really wanted, even if this is the only time when he'll admit it. But instead it enrages him, makes his blood boil hotter, and he slides his hand back to Phil's thigh and digs his fingers into the straining, trembling muscle there, hoping to leave bruises.

And he fucks him, hard, like he usually does, like Phil sometimes does for him if he asks, with his forehead braced on Phil's chest and his hair and neck and shoulders and arms being stroked with a fervent kind of focus he keeps expecting to throw off. He fucks him until the wall shakes dangerously behind them and he considers bracing him against one of the filing cabinets instead, but can't bring himself to stop long enough. He fucks him until Phil starts making low, almost pained sounds that are too close for Clint's comfort. He starts talking then. 

" _God_ , Phil," he grunts, seeking out a nipple and sucking at it, lightly. Phil whimpers, which Clint has never heard him do before. He's not sure he likes it. "Don't know what I...don't know what I'd do with myself without...you, fuck..." he's been punctuating with each thrust of his hips, hoping to distract from the actual words, but the last one had been too close and he slams in, hoping that'll be it. It's not. "Has anyone...God, has anyone...ever told you...you're so _fucking_...tight?"

Phil groans, back arching and hips stuttering against his stomach. "Not...the...first to...call me a tight-ass, _Clint_."

Clint's head snaps up. He really could kill him right now, fucker's pupils are huge and his cock is leaking all over Clint's t-shirt and his chest is flushed as hell and he's fucking _cracking jokes_. And their faces are close. Well, not really, it'd be uncomfortable to get closer, but god, the pull is there, it's always there but right now it's worse and Phil's smiling and, _fuck it_ , fuck it all to hell, he goes for it. 

And he's right. It's not comfortable. It's probably killing Phil's back to twist into this position. But their lips fit together like, well, lips (they're the same basic shape, okay, it's not like it's a puzzle or _rocket science_ or something) but it's Phil who's got his hand in Clint's hair and keeps it there to make sure they stay like that and now there's tongue involved and mostly it tastes like spit and maybe a little bit like come from Clint's side. Phil seems really into that, though, sucking on his tongue and rolling his hips at even the slightest positive response, and Clint's hips keep giving sad little jerks into the warm, familiar body he apparently doesn't know at all.

 _Shit, Phil,_ a part of him thinks, the decent part, wondering how many times he's wanted this and held back just so that Clint could pretend he was in control. 

The less decent part of him, the pragmatic part, lets him know it's time and he might as well make it up to him now. He reaches up and grabs Phil's cock, jerks him off in as close to the rhythm of his thrusts as he can, which isn't very close at this point, and isn't even sure which one of them comes first. The only thing he is sure of is that when Phil does, his head falls back against the wall with enough force to cause a dent in what looks like plaster but is probably supposed to be much more durable.

Perhaps he should be more concerned. It's kind of tough to be, from his vantage point: lying on the office floor, utterly sated, with Phil (and he's usually Coulson again by now, but this is definitely Phil) naked and sprawled on top of him.

"Hey. Boss." He gets no response, even as he runs his fingers through the short hairs at the base of Phil's head. "Phil?" There's a grunt. Clint tries not to crow at that. "Did I break you, sir?"

A sort of full body sigh follows, and then, "I'll mend."

He has no doubt. Agent Phil Coulson is indestructible. It may be what Clint likes most about him.

"Want to go mend in your room?"

"Want to come with me?" Phil mumbles into the general proximity of his collarbone, and Clint does his level best to not react, but he must do something because Phil lifts his head, groaning a little. His expression is serious, though, and kind. "Clint. Barton. You don't have to, I was just--"

"Phil. Coulson," he reaches up and presses a hand to Phil's cheek. Phil leans into it, just to be a bastard, probably. "I want to. But--" his mind goes momentarily blank, and is then filled. There are reasons, he knows. Some of them are Phil's. Hell, most of them are. But not a five minutes walk away from where they’re lying is a rune-covered hammer that fell from the sky and leaks radiation. Things are changing; why can't this be one of those things? Clint smiles. "But I'm sure as hell not taking you anywhere dressed like that."

Phil laughs. It's nice, Clint kind of feels it all over, including his dick, which is still out and kind of pressed between them and, well, again: it's nice. Not “throw Phil on his back and make mad love to him right away” nice, but nice. Phil rolls off of him before he can continue that line of thought and just lays there for a second. 

"Help me out, here," he says, and the words aren't all said before Clint is scrambling up to grab the essentials, tucking himself in as he goes. He helps Phil shrug back into his shirt and hands him his pants and jacket; he's helped Coulson dress before, after injuries, after sex, hell, after _sex injuries_ , but doing it for Phil seems like a bridge too far right now. He goes to check the hall in the meantime: all clear.

"Ready?" he says, and Phil nods. Clint offers him a hand and when he takes it, and wobbles like hell upon standing, Clint has no problem taking the logical next step. 

"Barton, what the hell," Phil says, in a tone that's a few levels above "I'm pretending to give a shit because people are watching" but not quite "Range privileges are suspended for the foreseeable future, Agent Barton," so he figures he's fine. Plus, this is Phil. If he really didn't want to be carried over Clint's shoulder for an extended period of time, he'd have gotten out of it by now. 

"You passed out from exhaustion when I came for my debriefing, Coulson. I'm just making sure you get to your quarters safely."

"Really? That's what you're going with? Turn right." 

He does, not that he needs Coulson to tell him to. "Key?" 

"Left pocket," which is going to be awkward as hell to get to, but Phil takes pity on him and retrieves it himself. Their fingertips brush as he hands it over. He slips the card into its slot and jiggles the handle and apparently Phil's door hates him less than his own does, because it opens immediately. 

Phil's bed is a single, because course it is, but he plops Phil down on it with as much care as he can manage and goes to shut the door. 

"You're staying, right?" 

He turns around, and Phil's in the middle of a yawn, still stretched out where Clint left him. He looks unconcerned, but that's reflexive with Phil, that's ground state, and he asked for a reason. 

"Yeah," Clint says, and for the moment he is in fact staying, right where he's standing by the door, until Phil makes the exaggerated effort to shift as far to the left as he can to leave him some room on the bed. He settles there, awkwardly, because what else, and just listens to Phil breath for a few seconds. They’re touching, because they have to, it’s a fucking single, but he’s not sure cuddling is on the table. He’s not sure he wants cuddling on the table. He’s not sure…of anything. Figures if _Phil_ was willing to ask, which couldn't have been easy, Clint might as well make the effort.

"What now?" he says, and feels Phil shift. 

"We wait. That hammer's not going anywhere, and our friend Donald Blake's bound to make another go at it at some point. We need to figure out why he wants it so bad, I was thinking of posting you in town--"

“Fuck that, Coulson, I meant--”

"Oh. Well I'm not so worried about that." Clint turns to look at him.

"About us?" Clint has to be sure, and Phil nods. "But about the...."

"Mysterious radioactive sky hammer, yes. A little more worried. I trust you." The last part jolts him. It's not that Clint doesn't know it, but short of the other four letter word it's probably the last thing he expected to hear right now. 

"Oh." He feels like he should maybe say something in response, but can't think what. It's obvious that he trusts Phil, that he likes him, that--Phil leans over, slides his hand around the back of Clint’s head, and kisses him, because apparently that's what they do now. Clint kisses him back. It's enough. He knows that for sure.

*


End file.
